


i should go, before my will gets any weaker, and my eyes being to linger

by carpethefanfics



Series: we were just kids when we fell in love [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Artist Ian Gallagher, Break Up, Explicit Sexual Content, Famous Ian Gallagher, Four years apart, Hand Jobs, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Photographer Ian Gallager, Reunion, Smoking, Swearing, reunited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpethefanfics/pseuds/carpethefanfics
Summary: Until Ian orders them another round and the bartender definitely seems to recognize him with a flirty smile which makes Mickey’s chest tighten uncomfortably, unexpectedly. He has to take a pause of what Ian’s whirl wind of a life has been since he’s been gone with the photo shoots and the news articles and the magazine spreads. Of course, people would see what Mickey saw, gorgeous and talented and kind. Ian had something to offer, something people wanted. So, Mickey clears his throat, “Saw that article in the Tribune- some of your photos. They’re really-” And then chokes when Ian’s brows furrow, “Why didn’t you ever call me Mick?”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: we were just kids when we fell in love [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764802
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	i should go, before my will gets any weaker, and my eyes being to linger

**Author's Note:**

> Reunited.

There are some unexpected moments that leave him completely taken with Ian. He’ll be milling about his day and it’ll hit him. This _is the man he wants to spend the rest of his damn life with_. Like right now, he’s just turned the grocery store cart down another aisle trying to find Ian because he was going on about just heading back a few aisles to get this new product for his workout smoothies- a new kick he’s on that involves blenders turning on at hours way too fucking early for Mickey’s ears- but he had never come back. It’s not until Mickey’s turned down another aisle that he feels like the world stops rotating on its axis.

There’s Ian- with the flaming red hair and the grey sweats and Mickey’s jean jacket _holding a fucking baby_. He’s talking to some blonde woman who Mickey thinks he recognizes from an event or two that Ian dragged him too. Instead of some god-awful blue blazer she looks exceedingly casual with the spit up and the stretched tee. But honestly, he’s too focused on the small bundle with the dark hair bouncing in Ian’s arms that also happens to be smiling up at him with these gigantic round blue eyes. It sends a shiver down Mickey’s spine the idea of Ian with a baby with features just like _his_.

It makes Mickey think of the future. More so than he ever has. Picture a life he barely even dared to dream of in their time apart. _Lego pieces filling a toy chest in the living room._ Even more afraid to dream of in their last few years together _. The sound of Ian yelling about school and being late and backpacks by the door._ But now, he couldn’t help it. _The feel of a metal band around his finger._

This is the exact state he had gone into that the night at the gallery when they have been standing so close; standing face to face in a room with dozens of people. Mickey had felt like it was just the two of them. All he could see were Ian’s damn green eyes, his perfect fucking jaw. All he felt was possessive. Ian was **his.** And he was Ian’s. Then his stomach would flip and one of them would slip an open palm into another open palm, their fingers intertwining. Mickey’s palm is itching for that now, to be grounded by Ian from where he stands- from where he watches the tiny fingers wrap around the collar of Ian’s – _or, well, his_ \- jacket.

It makes him thankful, _so fucking thankful_ , that they had only been a part for a little while before they had run into each other again- before this had started again and all those bubbling feelings inside of him returned. It was like the moment their eyes connected across that goddamn restaurant was always meant to happen.

Like it was written in the goddamn stars.

*

With the way the hair on the back of his neck stands he realizes someone is looking at him. Call it intuition or maybe a trait he picked up from years of hypervigilance back home and across the border, but he knows when someone’s got their eyes fixated on him. So, when he turns, when his head swivels and his eyes filter through the crowded restaurant he isn’t expecting to get hit by a _goddamn train_.

The feelings boil up inside of him like they have been nothing more than latent beneath a thinly veiled surface for the last four years waiting to spring out of him like a fucking volcanic eruption. His hands flex at the sudden itch in his palms because there, right there, is a beautiful man with beautiful green eyes who looks almost frozen in time. Those eyes are so intensely focused on Mickey, his lips parting open slightly in that way Mickey remembers when he had been taken by surprise or left in awe. It’s a little unsettling that after all this time Ian can still look at him like _that_ \- that after everything he can still feel **in awe** of Mickey. He watches Ian place a glass on a dark wooden high table and move through the throng of suits towards him. Mickey can’t move, can’t breathe, he feels like he’s fucking sixteen again seeing Ian Gallagher for the first goddamn time.

When Ian’s finally standing in front of him, he sounds breathless, “Hi.”

And Mickey hates the way his own voice comes out the same, “Hi.”

It’s like the clock has stopped; like the people in this way too expensive bar have evaporated- like the moment been them has stilled solely to let their brains catch up to the fact that they’re seeing each other again and it feels like absolutely nothing has changed. Even though everything has changed. Probably.

Not Ian’s voice though, “Uhm- wow … **Mickey**.” The way his name comes off Ian’s lips makes his whole body stiffen and heat up and he hates himself for it because if Ian’s any bit as perceptive as he used to be then he’ll see the tension in Mickey’s shoulders.

Ian’s eyes are just as fucking wonderful and heated and his smile just as slightly off-centre but so fucking bright, “ _How are you?_ ”

The world comes back to them a little then but, as they’re shuffled closer together by the intensity of the room and the buzzing of an off-work crowd who are just grabbing after dinner drinks, it doesn’t stay as uncharged as Mickey hopes. Mickey had known Ian was still in Chicago- it wasn’t entirely the reason Mickey had returned but it was definitely one of the reasons deep in the subconscious part of him that still loved Ian; that still felt an unyielding attachment to the first man who’d ever thought he was worth something. Also, the job offer that came from a friend of a friend who had promised to get him out and get him back to Chicago whenever he asked.

He remembered the first day he had seen the photographs in the American magazines that drifted through the city. It had been startling, Ian’s chiselled face and downright sexy stare looking up at him alongside a flood of images that reminded him of home. And of them.

_“Hey- ugh- do you mind if I take that?”_

_“The Newcity Art? Sure.”_

It had been easy after that to admit it- that he wanted out, that he wanted home. Whatever that home could be.

“You grew up on me.”

Ian laughs because yeah, he’s sure he did, “Happens when you’re gone four years.”

Mickey feels his hand tense around his glass as his eyes flick downward. He doesn’t want to have this conversation here- they’ve always been so heavy. It’s been nice to feel light. He’d rather tell Ian he looks fucking _hot_. That the last time he had seen him he was a nineteen-year-old kid with broad shoulders and a hard chest- arms and thighs that Mickey loved to have wrapped around him. But now- well now he’s got this fucking suave about him; this maturity about him with the fitted dress pants and the dress shirt that rolls up his arms. He’s grown into the body, moving gracefully, confidently- it makes Mickey’s mouth water. Then it makes him pause. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with this guilt and he isn’t sure what he has to be ashamed for. They both had played an equal part in blowing up whatever they had had back then. But he guesses since Ian had stayed and he had run and now they’re here- maybe they would have found their way back sooner if he hadn’t.

“You look almost exactly the same.”

It’s not entirely the truth, Ian thinks, because Mickey looks as good as he always has with his dark hair and striking blue eyes. But he also looks less wound up, like he isn’t looking over his shoulder quite as much anymore. He’s got less tension in his back and less darkness around his eyes. Four years had been good to him, and Ian feels guilty about wishing that being away from him and all his fucking problems didn’t look so damn good on Mickey.

They talk for the better part of an hour about nothing in particular- why they’re at the bar and who they’re with. Ian tells Mickey about his most recent trip to San Francisco and how he wishes he could get out and see the cities when he’s in them instead of being trapped in studios. _Don’t get me wrong I love what I do but fuck, whose been to San Fran three times like I have and hasn’t seen that fucking bridge?_ Mickey laughs. He talks about keeping in touch with his family here and there. He tells him about the new job he’s been working a little over eight months now; all that time with grease on his hands and now he gets to be the man in the suit. He tells Ian about this brief few months in California before he realized the sun was overrated. Ian makes a joke about his _pale ass_ and Mickey smirks back _like he’s one to talk_.

It’s easy, almost too easy.

Until Ian orders them another round and the bartender definitely seems to recognize him with a flirty smile which makes Mickey’s chest tighten uncomfortably, unexpectedly. He has to take a pause of what Ian’s whirl wind of a life has been since he’s been gone with the photo shoots and the news articles and the magazine spreads. Of course people would see what Mickey saw. Ian was gorgeous and talented and kind. Ian had something to offer, something people wanted, he always had. When the bartender turns back to another Mickey clears his throat, “Saw that article in the Tribune- some of your photos. They’re really-”

And then chokes when Ian’s brows furrow, “Why didn’t you ever call me Mick?”

Mickey is almost entirely sure he stops breathing with the blistering intensity of those green eyes bearing down on him. He really hadn’t thought Ian would ask him here and now after less than an hour of being back around each other but then again, he should have known better. Ian Gallagher didn’t beat around the bush- it was part of what pulled Mickey so tightly into him. That crass fucking mouth, his pushy nature, he never let Mickey half-ass anything. Mickey wets his lips and his hand tightens around the glass again needing to ground himself, “I don’t know. Just didn’t think I could-” _hear your voice, hear you ask me to come back, tell me you loved me_ \- “you know?”

He thinks hurt filters across Ian’s face and it cuts him a little more deeply the full impact of not returning those calls; of throwing his phone off the bridge. He had listened to the voice mails what felt like a hundred times before they had probably even stopped. One, _Hey Mick, just wanted to talk. I miss you._ After another, _I hope you’re okay_. After another, _Please Mick- I just- I need to hear you_.

His eyes turn to the bar top, “I should have.”

His eyes flicker back up to Ian’s face which is irritatingly unreadable, “Yeah you should’ve.”

When he leaves that night, it feels like his skin is on fire. Ian had pulled him into a hug and smiled bright again and told him to use the card he slipped into his jacket pocket. Mickey wonders if he actually fucking swooned at how goddamn smooth that was. He’s thought about Ian since he’s been gone, and he thought about him even more when he decided it was time to come back. He had wanted to reach out; see if Ian was still as fucking head over heels for him as Mickey repeatedly tried to tell himself he wasn’t. But right now, leaning up against his car with a cigarette between his fingers he’s thinking of all the ways they were fucking wrong together.

Despite whatever had happened inside that restaurant and despite feeling so at home looking up at the familiar Chicago night sky, Mickey can’t help but let the memories of what was probably a huge red flag for things to come wash over him. After their first break up, Ian had gone through that goddamn ringer. After their last, he isn’t sure he wants to know what Ian did.

God, it was nearly six or seven years ago now.

*

He had been sitting on the wooden bannister of his porch with a bottle of whatever he could find in the cupboard and his pack of smokes open ready to burn his lungs. He had settled into a comfortable silence, the run of the train a familiar background noise to a typical afternoon in their neighbourhood. That was until he heard a voice, “Hey.”

He turned his eyes briefly and scoffed, “Mandy ain’t here.” But apparently Lip didn’t care about that, “That’s good because I came to talk to you.” He’s leaning back against a wooden poll that was painted white once upon a time but is now chipped all to shit, “The fuck you want?”

Lip’s standing at the gate looking up at him, he seems tense and Mickey wonders if he’s afraid to be here or if something else is going on entirely, “You heard anything from Ian?” And there it is, the answer to his question, “No.” But Lip pushes onward, “It’s important.”

Mickey can’t help but scoff again, fucking Gallaghers and their insistent need to not take the first answer that falls out of your mouth, “So, you think I give a shit ‘cause I worked with the guy? Lip’s a persistent fucker too, “You gunna make me spell it out?” That makes Mickey stand, square off with his shoulders straight and his jaw tight from his spot looking down at Lip from the porch, “What the fuck you gettin’ at?” Lip shrugs his shoulders and turns his head, averting his eyes, “Nothing, I’m just worried about him. That’s all.”

Mickey had shrugged his arms, the snarky tone in his voice would have gotten him a fuckin smack from his father, “Well, I haven’t seen him.” But Lip clearly has some snark to spare too, “How hard was that?” Then he’s backing away to head down the sidewalk, rubbing his fingers together in his cut off gloves. Mickey’s worry and curiosity get the better of him, “He in trouble?” The look on Lip’s face from where he stands farther back makes Mickey’s stomach clench, “What kind of trouble?” Thankfully Lip knows better than to push again, “I’ll tell you when I find out.”

All Mickey could do as Lip stalked away from him is chew on the inside of his cheek.

Later that night, after finally making his way through three gay bars- brushing off every handsy fucking dude with cash in their hands and grey in their hair- he finds the one that Ian’s at. He remembers seeing him at the door from where he’s approaching on the sidewalk and it makes him fucking cringe. Not only because this old fucker in a suit has his hands holding Ian up and gripping his waist, but because Ian’s in nothing more than a fucking tank top in the dead of winter. Definitely high out of his fucking mind.

The closer he gets the more he feels the jolt inside him to run, speed up, get the fuck to Ian and stop this fucker from rubbing over Ian’s stomach and reaching into his pants. It isn’t until the guy licks up the side of Ian’s face that Mickey gets close enough and that makes him fucking **mad**. He grabs the guys by the collar at the back of his neck and fucking pulls, “Why don’t you molest someone your own age, you geritol fuck?”

Then his fist is colliding with the guy’s ribs and he’s keeling over with a grunt, “Ah. Fuck. Ow. God, you’re an _animal_.” But Mickey’s not fucking done with him yet, he pulls the guy up by the stupid scarf he’s got wrapped around his neck, “I’m not the one gropin’ and lickin’ on underage boys, am I?”

“We’re just having fun.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Give the kid some money before he calls the cops on you.”

The guy responds way faster to the threat then Mickey’s ever seen some assholes react to him demanding money, “Okay. Okay. Here, take, here.” Mickey wants to laugh almost and then he remembers why he’s here and he’s fucking pissed off, “Good, good. Thank you. **_Get the fuck outta here_** ,” Mickey’s shoving him back quickly as the money gets tossed into the air and lands in the slush on the sidewalk around them. He moves to grab the money as the guy literally scampers down the fucking road but, from his position squatting he looks over to check on Ian. Something breaks inside him a little at the sight of him on his side in the snow, back up against the brick wall of the clubs.

“Jesus Christ Ian,” he moves to try and shake him, “Hey, hey-” but he’s clearly out for the count. From where Mickey’s hand rests on his bare shoulder he can feel he’s also fucking freezing to the touch. He’s gotta get him somewhere warm and safe and he’s gotta do it right fucking now.

When they get inside the cab that had seemingly rolled up at the perfect time, shouting out to him to see if he’s the one whose called for it, Ian’s body leans into his. Ian’s face is digging into his neck and the feel of the cold tip of his nose gives Mickey a shiver. He can’t help but pull his jacket off and wrap it around the guy… after all, he’s the fucking reason the idiot came out here and got as blackout as he did. 

*

And even though he’s got memories like that overflowing in his head, a reminder of so much bullshit he can’t even keep his head straight, Mickey just can’t fucking help himself. He’s always been prone to bad decisions. So, he calls. He pulls that stupid card out of his bedside table where he had tossed it ( _read: placed very carefully_ ) and pulls out a cigarette to calm the wave of nerves rolling off his body at the same time. With bated breath and his hand hurting from how hard he’s holding the phone; he dials the stupid number with the rich guy area code and fucking _waits_.

“Hello?”

_That fucking voice._

“Ian-” it comes out way softer than he intends like the restaurant all over again.

“Mickey?”

He prays to whatever the fuck is out there the Ian can’t hear his nervous fidgeting, “Yeah it’s- yeah- I was just- just calling to see if you’re around.”

Ian sounds confused, “If I’m around…?”

And Mickey can feel his irritation rising, “Yeah- free or some shit.”

“Free or some shit?”

Then he feels his quick temper pop off, “You gunna repeat everything I fuckin’ say firecrotch?”

Ian’s laughter through the phone line goes straight through him, “ ** _Firecrotch_**. Goddamn-” but the laughter dies away to a lovely happy sentence he had been hoping to hear, “Yeah I’m free or some shit Mick.”

Now he prays Ian can’t hear the hopefulness that springs through him, “Tonight?”

“Yeah tonight.”

He doesn’t want to risk it being a question, “Logan’s at 9.”

He wonders if Ian is smiling over the phone, “I’ll see you then.”

“Alright.”

Mickey hangs up the phone and realizes his fucking knees are shaking.

*

They’re standing in the alleyway near the backdoor to the kitchen and Mickey can feel the buzz underneath his skin, but he isn’t sure it’s entirely from all the alcohol. So, like Mickey Milkovich does when he wants someone that clearly wants him back, or when he wants Ian who might more likely than not want him back, he stubs out his cigarette and moves his hand over the hardening bulge, stroking his thumb along the hard line there, “You been eyeing me all fucking night Gallagher.”

Ian’s eyes open wide and shoot straight down to follow Mickey’s hand. But, like Ian Gallagher does when he wants someone that clearly wants him, he doesn’t answer with his mouth or with his words, he answers by unzipping his well-tailored pants and moving his hand inside- grunting when his cock springs free. Mickey follows suit, his body is fucking thrumming with how stunned he is that this is actually happening for the first time in so fucking long.

_Leave it to them for it to happen in a fucking alleyway._

Mickey eyes Ian’s cock greedily, in the four years of being apart he’d seen his fair share of dick, but _holy fuck_ the things Ian’s did to him- just thick enough and long enough- the way Ian knew how to work him open until he was practically fucking begging for it. It had been so fucking long that all he can do not to fall to his knees right now and give Ian his mouth to fuck is keep his eyes focused on Ian’s movements. _Want him to be in control- want him to take me where he wants us to go_. Even though what Mickey **_really_** wants is swallow him down and suck him off until he’s coming hot down his throat with Mickey’s name breathlessly tumbling from his mouth.

Then Ian spits into his palm and begins stroking himself, other hand teasing at his balls, and Mickey’s mind goes fucking numb. Mickey gasps- he hasn’t seen Ian do that in years and it’s making his skin way too fucking hot to just fucking _watch_. So, Mickey drags his tongue over his own palm, eyes focused on Ian’s whose gaze gets even narrower at the sight and starts teasing the head of his own leaking cock. “Just like that,” Mickey urges him on, smirking when Ian turns his head sharply to look at him, his skin is flushed now in Mickey’s favourite way.

Mickey slides his hand down his shaft, shivering and moaning at the rushes of pleasure, so fucking turned on that Ian is watching him, “You still like this, huh. Watching me.” It could have been a question, something hot and dirty that people say to each other to get each other off and maybe in another life it was. But for Ian and Mickey, god they’ve known each other for way too fucking long not to remember just how each other needs it. Mickey remembers the first time he’d palmed himself through his jeans and Ian’s whole fucking chest had flushed red- heaving at the sight. Mickey had jerked himself off to that sight more times than he cared to admit.

Ian licks his parted lips, his hand moves faster over his cock, which Mickey can see is leaking too. Mickey groans, he wants to fucking taste him- his own strokes quickening at the thought of Ian heavy on his tongue- the taste of him. He can’t stop his eyes from running over Ian’s body his shirt stretched across his chest, his thighs tight in those pants. He’s enjoying the searing heat of Ian’s eyes rolling over him too- it’s nearly enough to make him come right then.

But fuck, Mickey wants to get his hands on him.

Keeping one hand on his dick, he lets his other fall beside him, then drags it over to rest on Ian’s hip. He trails it down Ian’s thigh and because Ian tenses at the touch Mickey holds his breath, blood is pounding in his ears. He knows Ian wants this and when Ian groans- when he starts moving his own hand up his cock again, Mickey drags his hand up Ian’s thigh to grip his cock. Ian bucks his hips up, groaning again, at the feeling of Mickey’s heated touch. Biting back his own moan, Mickey takes it a step further and twists his wrist.

“ _God fucking dammit Mick_ ,” Ian mutters, head falling back, and his hand falls away too, leaving just Mickey’s hand wrapped around him. Mickey enjoys the weight of it; curving into the crook between his thumb and finger, his wrist twisting, his fingers tightening just the way he remembers Ian liking it. He’s trying to keep up the pace, working Ian as best he can, thumbing his slit and jerking himself off in time. “Holy shit.” Then Mickey tenses because Ian’s stepping toward him and closing the space between them- Ian’s own hand wrapping around Mickey’s dick as his face comes so close Mickey thinks he might kiss him.

“Come on,” Ian pants into his shoulder as he jerks Mickey steadily. The air around them is so charged and all Mickey can do is watch their hands move- listening to the sound of their panting. “Come for me baby,” Mickey’s whole fucking body tenses at the fucking nickname. He’s working Ian faster, harder with every moan- Ian’s hands similarly chasing Mickey’s orgasm for him. Then Mickey’s hips jerk and stutter, and at Ian’s voice, “Come-” he does so with a gasp, spurting hot and thick over Ian’s hand. Ian groans at the feeling, so close to his own release that when Mickey huffs out “ _Ian_ ” which has sat trapped inside his chest for the better part of four years rip through him, it only takes a few hard strokes before Ian’s coming too- arching his back, “ _Mickey_.”

Ian sighs loudly, body going loose and languid, his sweaty forehead pressed against Mickey’s, both of their spent cocks spent. Mickey risks a glance up at Ian whose eyes are, of course, already on him. They’re wide and dark- Mickey wonders what he’s feeling. Confusion or longing? Maybe something more? Then there’s the gentle uptick at the corner of Ian’s mouth, “Didn’t think you were going to let me do that tonight.”

Mickey snorts as he shoves himself back into his pants and pulls out another cigarette, “Thought I’d wait?”

After Ian's done the same he reaches to take the cigarette out of Mickey’s hand as the smoke billows out of him, his voice is much softer than Mickey anticipated, “Hoped you’d wait.”

Mickey inhales and looks over at him realizing Ian’s not talking about the sex anymore.

The final words in Ian’s sentence all but floats between them- _Hoped you’d wait **for me**_ **.**

*

“Mickey,” it’s the one thing that always, without a doubt, fills him with warmth- the way Ian says his name when he’s not really expecting him to show up but is nonetheless _happy_. Then Ian gives him a smile that he knows will make Mickey smile- will make Mickey seem inviting even though he hates the mind-numbing awkwardness of conversations with strangers.

“You remember Jen- works at Chicago Mag, did that piece on my work last year for their Arts & Culture section?”

Mickey nods his head at Jen whose still got this kind look on her face as Ian continues rambling on about the baby ( _Leo_ ) and the pregnancy ( _surrogate_ ) and how they should double ( _with Jen and her wife_ ). Until Mickey hasn’t even said a word and Ian’s handing over the baby with a sweet smile and the softest fucking goodbye in a voice that Mickey’s never heard Ian use except in the comfort of the Gallagher home with Freddie.

When Jen’s out of ear shot Ian can’t help himself, “Don’t tell my brother but that kid might beat his out for cutest baby yet.”

Mickey smirks, “Yet?”

Ian says it so quick, “Ours would win hands down,” and Mickey gets whiplash. He feels the bubbling all over again, the warmth spreading over his body again straight down to his fucking toes. But Ian’s already got his hand over Mickey’s and he’s already pulling him down an aisle to argue about cereal.

_Yeah, he’s really fucking grateful they found their way back._

**Author's Note:**

> Title is I Should Go by Levi Kreis.
> 
> There's one part left for me to post after this. As promised it has more past things. 
> 
> Thanks for joining me on this ride AU ride my guys.


End file.
